My parents originally met
while singing on a radio program. Both had lovely voices and a joy for
music. I grew up listening and loving all kinds of music, from the classics
to show tunes to popular music. I knew all the songs from Oklahoma, The
Music Man, and Funny Girl. I wept with Sunrise, Sunset and laughed at
Matchmaker from Fiddler on the Roof. I knew all the leaves are brown and the
sky is gray and that you could get your kicks on Route 66. I became
acquainted with the old man that played knick-knack on my thumb, and I knew
the old lady who swallowed a fly. I called the wind Mariah and wondered how
much was that doggie in the window. I knew when Irish hearts are happy, all
the world seems bright and gay, and I knew to get out of the way for old Dan
Tucker. I wondered why the captain shouted for Dinah to blow her horn.

Sometimes Mom and Dad would play Moonlight Sonata on the piano. The power of
that song touches a deep chord within me still. How could anyone ever forget
the Red River Valley or not long to hear Shenandoah? My great grandmother
and I sang Do your ears hang low to the rhythm of her treadle sewing
machine, and it was from her I learned all of Mama's babies loved short'nin'
bread. Grandpa taught me Ezekial connected dem dry bones, and Grandma
carried me back to ole Virginny. When I took piano lessons, I learned to
play and sing flow gently, sweet Afton and rock-a-bye baby.

Later, I went to scout and church camp and learned more about life through
songs. I was taught the more we get together, the happier we'll be. When I
was happy and I knew it, I clapped my hands. I knew if you didn't want to
have a mother-in-law and fourteen kids, you'd better sip your cider from a
pail. Forget about trying to get to heaven on a kite because the kite string
will surely break. I knew to cover my spaghetti if anyone looked like they
were going to sneeze so my meatball wouldn't roll off, and I never ate a
peanut I just found laying around. I loved the mountains and the rolling
hills, and knew the king of the bush was Kookaburra. Michael rowed the boat
ashore while sister trimmed the sail, and I entreated the Lord to kum by ya.
It was good to know the day the teddy bears have their picnic, and that if
it didn't rain any more I wouldn't have to wash my neck.

As a teen I learned you could hear the whistle blow five hundred miles. No
one knew where all the flowers had gone, but we all knew we'd overcome some
day. This land was your land and my land, and we had a song to sing in the
morning and in the evening all over this land. Who was the man who shot
Liberty Valance? The answer was blowin' in the wind. I wanted to live where
seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day. I
knew we didn't have a barrel of money, but we could travel along, singing a
song, side by side.

When I grew older, songs took on new meanings for me. In the days of wine
and roses, all you needed was love. Any day now, Johnny Angel, the Duke of
Earl, and Henry the Eighth would wanna hold my hand. I found out the sun
shines bright on Loch Lomond and only love can break a heart. Breaking up
was hard to do, but we knew our day would come. Everybody was doing the
loco-motion. Ahab the Arab sang my camel to bed. We enjoyed dancin' in the
street after a hard day's night and feelin' glad all over. We knew a horse
was a horse (of course) and now we've been to the desert on a horse with no
name. Mustang Sally, Major Tom, Mrs. Robinson, and a boy named Sue were all
born free as the grass grows. I had boys sing Brown-Eyed Girl to me,
although I was a Green-Eyed Lady. I knew to say a little prayer and let the
sunshine in. What a wonderful world I lived in. The sounds of silence were
broken only by good vibrations. We still had operators to help us make our
calls, and the bare necessities included sitting on the dock of the bay and
in strawberry fields forever. All along the watchtower we could see a bridge
over troubled waters where proud Mary and the girl from Ipanema went walking
to the house of the rising sun.

If I wanted to sing about travel, there was a white room with black curtains
at the station, and a magic bus. Some guy was always leaving on a jet plane,
and by the time he got to Phoenix, his woman (the one who was ever gentle on
his mind) would be rising. We wondered if our friends were going to
Scarborough fair and knew those boots were made for walkin'. Whether tip
toeing through the tulips or riding a yellow submarine, we knew the road was
long with many a winding turn, but Mary Richards reminded us we were gonna
make it after all. We celebrated summer in the city, but a hazy shade of
winter was kind of a drag. Kentucky raindrops kept fallin' on our heads, but
we could still let a smile be our umbrella. My generation was there for the
dawning of the Age of Aquarius and we coloured our world with hope. We
bungled in the jungle and down on the corner, and learned to live and let
die. Most of us looked at life from both sides now. Some tried to save time
in a bottle. Mostly, I believe, we wanted to put a little love in our
hearts.

Now that I'm older, the hills are alive with the sound of music, with songs
they have sung for a million years. Memories light the corners of my mind,
some too painful to remember. But it's the way we were. Welcome back, Kotter.

> BIOGRAPHY
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about the author

Ginger Hamilton Caudill writes in spite of a
husband, four children, a mentally disabled sister, four cats, a guinea pig, and
a hamster, all of whom offer constant input.